


Into the light

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: Sapphire and Steel, The Shadow of the Tower
Genre: 15th Century, Alternate History, Character Death, Crossover, Elemental Weirdness, Episode: e05 The Serpent and the Comforter, Gen, Ghosts, Historium Bingo, Identity, Memory Loss, Religious Discussion, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: There is a method to what they do—to what they are. There is something about time—a prodigious mystery, an immensity, an unimaginable infinity, and he finds it again. He has always been here, after all. And he will be here again. And they will always be here, keeping time moving forward, safely, as it should.After the fire, Copper finds some answers.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Into the light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisbluespirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/gifts).



> Written as a fill for the "mirror" square of my [Historium](https://historium.dreamwidth.org/) [bingo](https://historium.dreamwidth.org/28158.html) card.
> 
> The title and several references throughout the story are taken from episode 5 of "The shadow of the tower", because it was my favourite and I have no chill. Also, it seemed to fit in quite nicely with elemental weirdness! "Temporal matters do not concern us here", indeed! ;)
> 
> This was inspired by a prompt from the [Element story generator](http://www.seasip.info/Misc/elements.html) (Silver / Copper / a shift in perception) and, more importantly, by [this beautiful historical gifset](https://thisbluespirit.dreamwidth.org/964203.html), and so it's dedicated to thisbluespirit, who is very nice and kind and shiny! <3

_Such a slightest breath_  
_And I know who I am_

\- Tinderticks: [Trouble every day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7q9MY-tQbpw).

*

There is a strange, faint birdsong echoing in the corridor of time, in the all-encompassing night.

He has been here for hours, after the fire. He has been hiding, covered in the shadows, waiting. There is something here. He can feel it, like a strange taste in his mouth, a hint of rust and ash and words unspoken. A thread of time caught upon the doorways, like some old trouble on the edges of memory. Something in the air, something like faith, burnt—but not forgotten.

There is something here—something wrong.

He walks forward, to follow the disturbance. The flames have done their job thoroughly, and the fire has almost gone out. But there is no wind tonight, and a few stubborn sparks still remain, clutching at the darkness. Something deep within time becomes as hot and bright as they are, refusing to move, curling around itself and threatening to catch fire again.

_Am I still here?_

Copper hears a faint sound, like chains jangling, and he turns to look at the man next to him. _Yes. And you shouldn't be._

The man sighs and wipes his face, and his tears fade like ashes in the night. His eyes are sad but kind, and there is a surprising gentleness among all this darkness. Together they look out at the dying sparks and the endless night, until the man's thoughts break the silence once again. _What am I? Am I a ghost?_

 _I don't know what you are. But I definitely know that you shouldn't be here._ Copper gestures towards the remains of the fire, the dust and the bones. _You're only supposed to be there._ He knows that he is being harsh, inhuman, but he can't help it. There is something here that he needs to fix. This is what he is here for. This is what he _is._

_I know. I don't want to be here. But I don't want to go. I want to see the sun one last time. I want to know—_

The man looks tired and defeated, almost lost. His eyes are unfocused and glassy, as if he had been in the dark for too long. He used to be a prisoner here, Copper can tell as much. And he is still trapped. Time moves around him, but he holds out his hands. With silent courage, he tries to push it back.

_I want to know. I want nothing else._

_If you go, you will know._ Copper doesn't know if this is precisely true, but it seems to be good enough for the man. He can't stop the night, he can't stop time from taking what belongs to it. But he looks unafraid now.

 _I didn't lie. I was not wrong!_ he says. _I was not evil! That soldier—that young guard—he knew. He was kind to me, he believed me!_

He looks at Copper with hope and defiant pride, with a strange kind of strength, a simple faith that seems to challenge his fate.

_I was frightened that I may have been wrong all along... but no more. No more. This is what I've chosen. This is what I believe._

And then it's time, at last, and he goes. He raises his hand, in silent gratitude. In understanding. He holds his head straight and walks beyond the shadows with stubborn dignity, like one who follows a simple truth and chooses his own way—his own answer.

He fades into the night, alone. And he is gone.

 _A brave man_ , Copper thinks. _Or a fool_. When it comes to humans, he can never be sure.

Copper takes a deep breath, and the hours seem to go by once again. The wind blows again. He feels time moving forward again, as it should. Yes, it's time. His work here is done, and he has to go too.

But he doesn't. Not just yet.

There is a strange feeling still within him, something odd and sharp and metallic, something that gets under his skin and beats an incessant rhythm, almost like blood. Something that's almost alive—but not quite.

There is still something here. And he needs to find it.

He follows the trail of time, as it moves along a strange, dark corridor, like it always does. But now, it is darker than usual, and the world is too quiet. The world is full of broken mirrors, of echoed footsteps, of empty gardens where no one walks anymore. There are echoes of memories in the air that have haunted this place, as it waked and slept over the centuries—elusive thoughts and unanswered questions.

This is what the darkness does. This is what _time_ does. Again, it threatens to become loose and undone, neverending, like a spool of wire. He tries to catch it, to make it right, but it slips away from him. It slips through his fingers—it burns like sparks.

He tries to walk away, to leave it behind. But he can't.

The world moves, it breathes slightly. And, for a moment, he sees old images of the past and the future—bright and alive and there, _right there_. He sees moments of joy, of great sorrow. He sees many people, and he doesn't know their names, but still, he doesn't want to forget them. No, he won't forget them, even though there is nothing here anymore—only silence and death masks and deep, deep darkness.

And he won't forget his own name, even though he doesn't have one—even though he is no one any longer.

He doesn't belong here, but for a moment, he does. And no, he doesn't want to go. Time means everything, and so, for a moment, it means nothing. And perhaps, for a moment, he would like to stop it. There is something he needs to remember. And something he needs to get back.

And he will.

He thinks of the man by the dying fire. _One life, one soul, a thing of small importance, soon forgotten_... but he shall remember him. He shall remember his words. He doesn't know why. He feels a sense of regard. Almost of affection. A bond between them.

But he shouldn't know of these things. He can't. No, he shouldn't—or perhaps he should.

The shadows whisper, and the words are loud in the air. They want to be heard. The world scratches at the edge of the moment, and knots and threads it into itself. The world turns the moment into history. And the world writes the history that lasts a moment—that lasts forever, like mystery, like poetry. And if he could stay here, for a moment—if he could remember. There is something he doesn't want to lose—something he doesn't want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

He closes his eyes, and there is a voice at the back of his head, and it says that he has to go. He can't stay here.

And there is no noise to break the silence, but still he turns, and Silver is there, standing at the end of the corridor, as he knew he would be. He doesn't need to look. He is whispering within his mind, like soft feathers and dust. He remembers. He remembers _him_. But he can't move. He can't speak. Time has been damaged here, and the pain of it is fresh and recent, like a wound. And it won't let him go.

He stands, for a moment, in the dark corridor. In and out of time—for a moment. And time builds a wall around them, and it is right—it is as it should be. But time keeps them away from everything, it keeps them apart. And this strange time, this ancient breath of time, it hurts. He doesn't want to forget—he doesn't want to forget himself.

 _Do you know who you are?_ He feels Silver's words in his mind, and they remind him. There is a method to what they do—to what they _are_. There is something about time—a prodigious mystery, an immensity, an unimaginable infinity, and he finds it again. He has always been here, after all. And he will be here again. And _they_ will always be here, keeping time moving forward, safely, as it should.

It might be beyond all reason, beyond all understanding. But it is the only answer he needs.

He opens his eyes. The shadows lift, and he steps back into the light. Yes, he is here. Again. After being—after being in this world, it feels right. It comes as a relief.

_There we are, now. All fixed. This timeline seemed to be particularly fond of you, didn't it?_

He looks at Silver, he hears him, clearly now. He feels free to move, and he walks, and he stops by a window. The curtains brush his head, and he touches the rich, heavy fabric. He shouldn't—but he does, and a small fragment of time jumps into his hand and freezes itself within him. He puts it in his pocket and takes it along with him, like a souvenir. He looks at Silver, who is touching the small precious objects here and there, with quick fingers, and he knows that he won't mind. He knows that he will understand.

After all, they are supposed to remember.

He looks around him. Everything is still very quiet. He feels time moving properly—again. His mind is clear, sharp. And Silver is waiting for him, as patiently as he can ever be, and he doesn't want to trouble him. Not again. Not this time. Not _now_ , when he truly understands.

Once again, he remembers. He is sure now. He knows who he is. And so he gathers his tools, and they go. It is early morning, at first light, and by the place where the fire once burnt, a young guard prays silently, with his head bowed down and his rosary held close. The very last sparks of that strange, earthly fire go out, fading into the new day, like an answer—but they don't look back.


End file.
